Hyacinth opened her mouth to reply, and it was only then that she realized he had never answered her question.
“He said he couldn’t not marry me,” she lied. It was what she wished he’d said; it might as well be what Lady Danbury thought had transpired.
“Oh!” Lady D sighed, clasping a hand to her chest. “How lovely.”
Hyacinth regarded her with a new appreciation. “You’re a romantic,” she said.
“Always,” Lady D replied, with a secret smile that Hyacinth knew she didn’t often share. “Always.”
Chapter 14
Two weeks have passed. All of London now knows that Hyacinth is to become Mrs. St. Clair. Gareth is enjoying his new status as an honorary Bridgerton, but still, he can’t help but wait for it all to fall apart.
The time is midnight. The place, directly below Hyacinth’s bedroom window.
He had planned for everything, plotted every last detail. He’d played it out in his mind, everything but the words he’d say, since those, he knew, would come in the heat of the moment.
It would be a thing of beauty.
It would be a thing of passion.
It would be that night.
Tonight, thought Gareth, with a strange mix of calculation and delight, he would seduce Hyacinth.
He had a few vague pangs about the degree to which he was plotting her downfall, but these were quickly dismissed. It wasn’t as if he was going to ruin her and leave her to the wolves. He was planning to marry the girl, for heaven’s sake.
And no one would know. No one but him and Hyacinth.
And her conscience, which would never allow her to pull out of a betrothal once she’d given herself to her fiancé.
They had made plans to search Clair House that night. Hyacinth had wanted to go the week before, but Gareth had put her off. It was too soon to set his plan in motion, so he had made up a story about his father having guests. Common sense dictated that they would wish to search the emptiest house possible, after all.
Hyacinth, being the practical girl she was, had agreed immediately.
But tonight would be perfect. His father would almost certainly be at the Mottram Ball, on the off chance that they actually made it to Clair House to conduct their search. And more importantly, Hyacinth was ready.
He’d made sure she was ready.
The past two weeks had been surprisingly delightful. He’d been forced to attend an astounding number of parties and balls. He had been to the opera and the theatre. But he had done it all with Hyacinth at his side, and if he’d had any doubts about the wisdom of marrying her, they were gone now. She was sometimes vexing, occasionally infuriating, but always entertaining.
She would make a fine wife. Not for most men, but for him, and that was all that mattered.
But first he had to make sure she could not back out. He had to make their agreement permanent.
He’d begun her seduction slowly, tempting her with glances, touches, and stolen kisses. He’d teased her, always leaving a hint of what might transpire next. He’d left her breathless; hell, he’d left himself breathless.
He’d started this two weeks earlier, when he had asked her to marry him, knowing all the while that theirs would need to be a hasty engagement. He’d started it with a kiss. Just a kiss. Just one little kiss.
Tonight he would show her just what a kiss could be.
All in all, Hyacinth thought as she hurried up the stairs to her bedroom, it had gone rather well.
She would have preferred to stay home that night—all the more time to prepare for her outing to Clair House, but Gareth had pointed out that if he was going to send his regrets to the Mottrams, she had best attend. Otherwise, there might be speculation as to both of their whereabouts. But after spending three hours talking and laughing and dancing, Hyacinth had located her mother and pleaded a headache. Violet was having a fine time, as Hyacinth had known she would be, and did not wish to depart, so instead she’d sent Hyacinth home in the carriage by herself.
Perfect, perfect. Everything was perfect. The carriage had not encountered any traffic on the way home, so it had to be just about midnight, which meant that Hyacinth had fifteen minutes to change her clothing and creep down to the back stairs to await Gareth.
She could hardly wait.
She wasn’t certain if they would find the jewels that night. She wouldn’t be surprised if Isabella had instead left more clues. But they would be one step closer to their goal.
And it would be an adventure.
Had she always possessed this reckless streak, Hyacinth wondered. Had she always thrilled to danger? Had she only been waiting for the opportunity to be wild?
She moved quietly down the upper hall to her bedroom door. The house was silent, and she certainly didn’t wish to rouse any of the servants. She reached out and turned the well-oiled doorknob, then pushed the door open and slipped inside.
At last.
Now all she had to do was—
“Hyacinth.”
She almost shrieked.
“Gareth?” she gasped, her eyes nearly bugging out. Good God, the man was lounging on her bed.
He smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She looked quickly around the room. How had he got inside? “What are you doing here?” she whispered frantically.
“I arrived early,” he said in a lazy voice. But his eyes were sharp and intense. “I thought I’d wait for you.”
“Here?”
He shrugged, smiled. “It was cold outside.”
Except it wasn’t. It was unseasonably warm. Everyone had been remarking on it.
“How did you get in?” Good God, did the servants know? Had someone seen him?
“Scaled the wall.”
“You scaled the—You what?” She ran to the window, peering out and down. “How did you—”
But he had risen from the bed and crept up behind her. His arms encircled her, and he murmured, low and close to her ear, “I’m very, very clever.”
She let out a nervous laugh. “Or part cat.”
She felt him smile. “That, too,” he murmured. And then, after a pause: “I missed you.”
“I—” She wanted to say that she’d missed him, too, but he was too close, and she was too warm, and her voice escaped her.
He leaned down, his lips finding the soft spot just below her ear. He touched her, so softly she wasn’t even sure it was a kiss, then murmured, “Did you enjoy yourself this evening?”
“Yes. No. I was too…” She swallowed, unable to withstand the touch of his lips without making a reaction. “…anxious.”
He took her hands, kissing each in turn. “Anxious? Whyever?”
“The jewels,” she reminded him. Good heavens, did every woman have this much trouble breathing when standing so close to a handsome man?
“Ah, yes.” His hand found her waist, and she felt herself being pulled toward him. “The jewels.”
“Don’t you want—”
“Oh, I do,” he murmured, holding her scandalously close. “I want. Very much.”
“Gareth,” she gasped. His hands were on her bottom, and his lips on her neck.
And she wasn’t sure how much longer she could remain standing.
He did things to her. He made her feel things she didn’t recognize. He made her gasp and moan, and all she knew was that she wanted more.
“I think about you every night,” he whispered against her skin.
“You do?”
“Mmm-hmm.” His voice, almost a purr, rumbled against her throat. “I lie in bed, wishing you were there beside me.”
It took every ounce of her strength just to breathe. And yet some little part of her, some wicked and very wanton corner of her soul, made her say, “What do you think about?”
He chuckled, clearly pleased with her question. “I think about doing this,” he murmured, and his hand, already cupping her bottom, tightened until she was pressed against the evidence of his desire.
&n
bsp; She made a noise. It might have been his name.
“And I think a lot about doing this,” he said, his expert fingers flicking open one of the buttons on the back of her gown.
Hyacinth gulped. Then she gulped again when she realized he’d undone three more in the time it took her to draw one breath.
“But most of all,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “I think about doing this.”
He swept her into his arms, her skirt swirling around her legs even as the bodice of her dress slid down, resting precariously at the top of her breasts. She clutched at his shoulders, her fingers barely making a dent in his muscles, and she wanted to say something—anything that might make her seem more sophisticated than she actually was, but all she managed was a startled little, “Oh!” as she became weightless, seemingly floating through the air until he laid her down on her bed.
He lay down next to her, perched on his side, one hand idly stroking the bare skin covering her breastbone. “So pretty,” he murmured. “So soft.”
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
He smiled. Slowly, like a cat. “To you?”
She nodded.
“That depends,” he said, leaning down and letting his tongue tease where his fingers had just been. “How does it make you feel?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
He laughed, the sound low and soft, and strangely heartwarming. “That’s a good thing,” he said, his fingers finding the loosened bodice of her gown. “A very good thing.”
He tugged, and Hyacinth sucked in her breath as she was bared, to the air, to the night.
To him.
“So pretty,” he whispered, smiling down at her, and she wondered if his touch could possibly leave her as breathless as his gaze. He did nothing but look at her, and she was taut and tense.
Eager.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, and then he touched her, his hand skimming along the tip of her breast so lightly he might have been the wind.
Oh, yes, his touch did quite a bit more than his gaze.
She felt it in her belly, she felt it between her legs. She felt it to the tips of her toes, and she couldn’t help but arch up, reaching for more, for something closer, firmer.
“I thought you’d be perfect,” he said, taking his torture to her other breast. “I didn’t realize. I just didn’t realize.”
“What?” she whispered.
His eyes locked with hers. “That you’re better,” he said. “Better than perfect.”
“Th-that’s not possible,” she said, “you can’t—oh!” He’d done something else, something even more wicked, and if this was a battle for her wits, she was losing desperately.
“What can’t I do?” he asked innocently, his fingers rolling over her nipple, feeling it harden into an impossibly taut little nub.
“Can’t make something—can’t make something—”
“I can’t?” He smiled deviously, trying his tricks on the other side. “I think I can. I think I just did.”
“No,” she gasped. “You can’t make something better than perfect. It’s not proper English.”
And then he stilled. Completely, which took her by surprise. But his gaze still smoldered, and as his eyes swept over her, she felt him. She couldn’t explain it; she just knew that she did.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmured. “Perfection is absolute, is it not? One can’t be slightly unique, and one can’t be more than perfect. But somehow…you are.”
“Slightly unique?”
His smile spread slowly across his face. “Better than perfect.”
She reached up, touched his cheek, then brushed a lock of his hair back and tucked it behind his ear. The moonlight glinted off the strands, making them seem more golden than usual.
She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do. All she knew was that she loved this man.
She wasn’t sure when it had happened. It hadn’t been like her decision to marry him, which had been sudden and clear in an instant. This…this love…it had crept up on her, rolling along, gaining in momentum until one day it was there.
It was there, and it was true, and she knew it would be with her always.
And now, lying on her bed, in the secret stillness of the night, she wanted to give herself to him. She wanted to love him in every way a woman could love a man, and she wanted him to take everything she could give. It didn’t matter if they weren’t married; they would be soon enough.
Tonight, she couldn’t wait.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
He smiled, and it was in his eyes even more than his lips. “I thought you’d never ask.” He leaned down, but his lips skimmed hers for barely a second. Instead they veered downward, breathing heat across her until they found her breast. And then he—
“Ohhhh!” she moaned. He couldn’t do that. Could he?
He could. And he did.
Pure pleasure shot through her, tickling to every corner of her body. She clutched his head, her hands sinking into his thick, straight hair, and she didn’t know if she was pulling or pushing. She didn’t think she could stand any more, and yet she didn’t want him to stop.
“Gareth,” she gasped. “I…You…”
His hands seemed to be everywhere, touching her, caressing her, pushing her dress down, down…until it was pooled around her hips, just an inch from revealing the very core of her womanhood.
Panic began to rise in Hyacinth’s chest. She wanted this. She knew she wanted this, and yet she was suddenly terrified.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“That’s all right.” He straightened, yanking his shirt off with enough force it was amazing buttons didn’t fly. “I do.”
“I know, but—”
He touched her lips with his finger. “Shhh. Let me show you.” He smiled down at her, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Do I dare?” he wondered aloud. “Should I…Well…maybe…”
He lifted his finger from her mouth.
She spoke instantly. “But I’m afraid I will—”
He put his finger back. “I knew that would happen.”
She glared at him. Or rather, she tried to. Gareth had an uncanny ability to make her laugh at herself. And she could feel her lips twitching, even as he pressed them shut.
“Will you be quiet?” he asked, smiling down at her.
She nodded.
He pretended to think about it. “I don’t believe you.”
She planted her hands on her hips, which had to be a ludicrous position, naked as she was from the waist up.
“All right,” he acceded, “but the only words I’ll allow from your mouth are, ‘Oh, Gareth,’ and ‘Yes, Gareth.’”
He lifted his finger.
“What about ‘More, Gareth?’ ”
He almost kept a straight face. “That will be acceptable.”
She felt laughter bubbling up within her. She didn’t actually make a noise, but she felt it all the same—that silly, giddy feeling that tingled and danced in one’s belly. And she marveled at it. She was so nervous—or rather, she had been.
He’d taken it away.
And she somehow knew that it would be all right. Maybe he’d done this before. Maybe he’d done this a hundred times before, with women a hundred times more beautiful than she.
It didn’t matter. He was her first, and she was his last.
He lay down beside her, pulling her onto her side and against him for a kiss. His hands sank into her hair, pulling it free from its coils until it fell in silky waves down her back. She felt free, untamed.
Daring.
She took one hand and pressed it against his chest, exploring his skin, testing the contours of the muscles beneath. She’d never touched him, she realized. Not like this. She trailed her fingers down his side to his hip, tracing a line at the edge of his breeches.
And she could feel his reaction. His muscles leapt wherever she touched, and when she moved to his belly, to t
hat spot between his navel and the last of his clothing, he sucked in his breath.
She smiled, feeling powerful, and so, so womanly.
She curved her fingers so that her nails would scrape his skin, lightly, softly, just enough to tickle and tease. His belly was flat, with a light dusting of hair that formed a line and disappeared below his breeches.
“Do you like this?” she whispered, taking her index finger and making a circle around his navel.
“Mmm-hmm.” His voice was smooth, but she could hear his breathing growing ragged.
“What about this?” Her finger found the line of hair and slid slowly down.
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes said yes.
“What about—”
“Undo the buttons,” he grunted.
Her hand stilled. “Me?” Somehow it hadn’t occurred to her that she might aid in their disrobing. It seemed the job of the seducer.
His hand took hers and led it to the buttons.
With trembling fingers, Hyacinth slid each disc free, but she did not pull back the fabric. That was something she was not quite ready to do.
Gareth seemed to understand her reluctance, and he hopped from the bed, for just long enough to pull off the rest of his clothing. Hyacinth averted her eyes…at first.
“Dear G—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, resuming his spot next to her. His hands found the edge of her dress and tugged it the rest of the way down. “Never”—he kissed her belly—“ever”—he kissed her hip—“worry.”
Hyacinth wanted to say that she wouldn’t, that she trusted him, but just then his fingers slid between her legs, and it was all she could do simply to breathe.
“Shhhh,” he crooned, coaxing her apart. “Relax.”
“I am,” she gasped.
“No,” he said, smiling down at her, “you’re not.”
“I am,” she insisted.
He leaned down, dropping an indulgent kiss on her nose. “Trust me,” he murmured. “Just for this moment, trust me.”
And she tried to relax. She really did. But it was near impossible when he was teasing her body into such an inferno. One moment his fingers were on the inside of her thigh, and the next they’d parted her, and he was touching her where she’d never been touched before.